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<title>Your Mouth is Poison (Your Mouth is Wine) by Lorinand_Lost (Barefoot_Dancer)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28294197">Your Mouth is Poison (Your Mouth is Wine)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barefoot_Dancer/pseuds/Lorinand_Lost'>Lorinand_Lost (Barefoot_Dancer)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works &amp; Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Ost-in-Edhil, Second Age, Tolkien Secret Santa 2020, deceit and manipulation, gift for drawingmaedhros, the creation of the rings of power</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:29:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,970</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28294197</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barefoot_Dancer/pseuds/Lorinand_Lost</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He hates himself for how readily he reacts to Annatar, despite everything, like returning to the place of one’s birth to find it irrevocably changed - yet still bearing the echo of that which once made it beloved.</p><p>(In which Celebrimbor begins to suspect that something is not as it seems)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Annatar/Celebrimbor | Telperinquar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Tolkien Secret Santa 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Your Mouth is Poison (Your Mouth is Wine)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leyan/gifts">Leyan</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is tagged “chose not to use archive warnings” because I suppose that based on the inherent deceit underpinning their relationship, the sex is at best dub-con.  Extra warnings for what one might call gaslighting (not explicitly verbally, but Sauron really is a master of manipulation; in this fic, Tyelpe feels that something is wrong, but he’s not sure what).</p><p>Title taken from Poison and Wine by the Civil Wars</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Something moves in Eregion - a darkness. </p><p> </p><p>The wind hears its whispers, and it repeats these tidings through the reeds in the southern marshes.</p><p> </p><p>The river tastes its lips, and it carries the sensation to the sea.</p><p> </p><p>The earth feels its tread, and resonates with the rhythm of something moving- inexorably.</p><p> </p><p>Something is coming.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Celebrimbor wakes in the night.  A cool breeze pushes the linen curtains inward like great wings.  It is the new moon, and the room is cloaked in shadows of aquamarine.  Feeling as if he were rising from deep water, Celebrimor raises himself up on one arm.  It is that time of early morning when the city was silent, the sky was the color of wine, and the air still smelled like sweetgrass.  In a few hours, the city will wake to the great bell of the Mírdain, the sun will paint the sky in rose and tangerine, and the air will smell of fresh bread.  </p><p> </p><p>But right now, it is still that early hour when Celebrimbor’s lone candle has burnt itself to almost nothing, casting a pale finger of light that reaches across the bare shoulder of his bedfellow.  Annatar stirs, as if he had sensed how Celebrimbor’s thoughts bent in his direction, and opens one golden eye.  “What troubles you, Tyelpe?” he murmurs, drawing an arm about his lover’s waist. </p><p> </p><p>Celebrimbor shakes his head.  “I do not -“ his voice is rough with sleep. “- I do not know. I was woken by something I cannot identify.” </p><p> </p><p>Annatar chuckles.  “It was probably the wind; it always has something to say.  But it is early yet, rest a while longer.”  His fingers trace a suggestive pattern down the seam of Celebrimbor’s hip.  “Or, if you find yourself already … roused … we can find other pursuits.”</p><p> </p><p>When Annatar’s trailing fingers find his length, already stiffening where it is trapped in his small-clothes, Celebrimbor allows himself to be drawn back down into the blankets.  Soon, he is enthusiastically distracted by a pair of very clever lips. </p><p> </p><p>He still can’t shake the feeling that the sky seems to be holding its breath, waiting.  </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Celebrimbor has worked very hard for what he has.  Even now, some people will only ever look at him like he is his grandfather’s ghost.  The Mírdain is nice, though; it is nice to get lost in one’s work.</p><p> </p><p>Still, Celebrimbor itches for something.  It might be in his blood, a notion that gratifies him as much as it repulses him.  It doesn’t seem enough simply to create.  He needs to produce something enduring.  His knowledge and fire are those of his forefathers, and he won’t be ashamed of them.  They were very different from how they are remembered, before something with dark roots grew in them.</p><p> </p><p>Annatar feeds Celebrimbor’s ambition like wood on a fire.  Without him, their system of aqueducts would be nonexistent, or the floating gardens in the floodplain.  Celebrimbor hasn’t met someone who matched his intensity, his desire for unfettered creation, since Narvi.</p><p> </p><p>He is not sure when their easy friendship becomes something more.  </p><p> </p><p>It happened somewhere along the way as professional decorum was abandoned in the long candle-lit hours when they pour over sheafs of thermochemical studies.  It happened when ordering platters of curry that went largely untouched in their concentration, and Celebrimbor dripped lamb and rice onto Annatar’s orbital diagrams.  </p><p> </p><p>It happened when Annatar called, without turning from his place at the furnace, “Tyelpe, will you bring me the crucible?” </p><p> </p><p>Celebrimbor had been rooted to the ground with shock, and didn’t notice until Annatar put a hand on his arm.  “Tyelperinquar?  That is your name, is it not?”</p><p> </p><p>He had not heard that name in many years, written in a tongue that was almost forgotten on this side of the sea.  “It reminds most people of a time they would rather forget; it is easier to let go of these things.”</p><p> </p><p>“You have as much a right to authenticity as any other.  Is it not better to be yourself, in your entirety, that something that is easy for others to consume?”</p><p> </p><p>Celebrimbor supposes it happened right then, when he had no words and could only lean in for a kiss, driven by something wild and sad and desirous. </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Celebrimbor supposes it is proper to call them “His Quarters”rather than “Theirs,” as Annatar does maintain his own rooms within the keep of Ost-in-Edhil, and a small room - as is customary of all smiths - in the Mírdain.  </p><p> </p><p>Though, Celebrimbor finds himself drawn to the idea of Annatar sharing his study, Annatar perusing his library, Annatar sharing a decanter of wine with him in the evening - Eru knows the evening rarely ends with a friendly drink anymore, and Annatar’s robes seem to find their way with regularity into Celebrimbor’s wardrobe. </p><p> </p><p>He does seem to come and go as he pleases.  It is, of course, his right - though he doesn’t often explain where he goes or why.  Sometimes he comes to bed late, smelling of cold rain, lips tasting of metallic water, and when he does he is always <em> hungry </em> in his conquest. </p><p> </p><p>Celebrimbor supposes that his lover is not <em> rough </em> with him - Annatar doesn’t need to be rough.  When he orders Celebrimbor to submit, he does so with a soft word that brooks no argument, with bindings meticulously tied, with a clinical interest that leads him to places that make Celebrimbor bite his own tongue to silence his noise-making.</p><p> </p><p>Celebrimbor supposes his lover is simply <em> thorough </em> - Annatar knows how much this body can give him, and when he asks for a little more, Celebrimbor always gives it to him.  In any case, kneeling doesn’t come easy to him, and he supposes he should practice.  </p><p> </p><p>Isn’t it nice to lay aside reticence for once, to trust someone else in their work?</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Celebrimbor supposes it is natural that Annatar has suggestions for things he has never dreamed of.  Anyone who studied with Aulë would.  So when the Maia suggests a project more complex than anything Celebrimbor has attempted, he puts aside his better judgement. </p><p> </p><p>Rings of power are not that different from his grandfather’s gems.  This task would rival anything forged in the Years of the Sun.  Annatar feeds him honeyed words of restoration and guardianship, the fruits of land and labor enriched and multiplied, peace that was heretofore undreamt of. </p><p> </p><p>“Don’t tell me, Tyelperinquar, that you don’t hunger to prove everyone wrong?  To prove that your ambitions are an asset, to prove that the knowledge of your forebears is unparalleled?</p><p> </p><p>Celebrimbor hangs on his every word.  They inflame his hunger like wine.  Annatar’s smile shows all of his teeth. </p><p> </p><p>There is just one problem.  To create something of this magnitude, it must be bonded to a soul; according to Annatar, it will require both of them.  Celebrimbor pushes down that feeling of disquiet that has been growing as of late.  </p><p> </p><p>The diagrams Annatar draws are foreign to Celebrimbor, concepts beyond his scope of knowledge.  Annatar lets him peruse them, take notes from them, but they seem incomplete.  There is something missing that tugs at Celebrimbor’s intuition.  Celebrimbor supposes the missing pieces must be something that only Annatar has the skills to accomplish.</p><p> </p><p>Annatar disappears with greater frequency.  When he comes back, he always takes Celebrimbor to bed.  No one else makes Celebrimbor feel so fulfilled, and so alone.  Annatar presses kisses into his dark skin, whispers words of worship, kneels in service before him; Celebrimbor has never been loved like this, has never felt something was missing like this.  </p><p> </p><p>He hates himself for it, this wanting.  Wanting too much was the downfall of his family.  Celebrimbor is the only one left now, alone in the shadows that seem to lengthen around him, snapping at his ankles with the old suspicions and prejudices he saw in his father’s eyes, heard in Fëanor’s mouth.  Celebrimbor supposes he should just take what he is given, because it’s still more than he deserves. </p><p> </p><p>Celebrimbor hates himself for making copies of Annatar’s parchments, drawn from memory in the days when Annatar is away, and hidden beneath a loose flagstone when he returns.  He hates himself for running the experiments to test Annatar’s theories, the alloys and galvanic cells.  He hates himself for going through Annatar’s chambers.  When he finds the missing papers, written in a script that Annatar has no business knowing, his blood turns to ice.</p><p> </p><p>He hates himself for not seeing it before.  He hates himself for wishing he hadn’t seen.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When Celebrimbor comes to bed - late - after an evening of mounting apprehension spent pacing the empty upper corridors, Annatar is already there.  He seems different, like he is scenting the air before a storm.  His smile is impossibly wide.  </p><p> </p><p>Instinctively, Celebrimbor knows what he wants, is surprised to realize that instinctively he wants it too, and begins to undo the lacings of his robes.  His heart is beating like the deer with its neck in the wolf’s mouth.  If Annatar can hear that frantic tattoo, he doesn’t say anything.  </p><p> </p><p>Annatar pulls him down onto the bed.  “Tyelpe, I was waiting for you,” he whispers in his ear, mouthing at Celebrimbor’s pulse point.  </p><p> </p><p>“Won’t you tie me up?” Celebrimbor asks, for this is what Annatar usually does when he is in this fey mood.  </p><p> </p><p>He pauses his ministrations to the joining of Celebrimbor’s inner thigh, contemplates this, and replies “I think not.  In fact, you may put your hands in my hair.”  </p><p> </p><p>Celebrimbor tentatively does just this.  When Annatar licks his length from root to tip, he feels himself hardening, despite all the information to persuade him otherwise.  When Annatar swallows him down, it is all he can do to not pull his hair, to force himself down that slender throat.  Even as Celebrimbor guides him over his length, controlling his pace and depth, Annatar’s eyes seem to say “You do this because I bid you to do so.” </p><p> </p><p>Annatar will not let him finish so easily, and he pulls off as Celebrimbor’s peak begins to build.  He casts a leg over Celebrimbor’s hips, rutting down against his leaking length.  Unbidden, Celebrimbor finds the oil in the bedside table, slicking his fingers.  He traces his fingers down the cleft of Annatar’s buttocks.  He intends to ease himself inside, but Annatar forces himself down on Celebrimbor’s fingers.  Celebrimbor would prefer to spend more time preparing him, but Annatar knocks his hand away.  </p><p> </p><p>When Annatar sinks down upon him, Celebrimbor cannot stop himself from gripping his hips, from thrusting sharply into that burning heat.  He hates himself for how readily he reacts to Annatar, despite everything, like returning to the place of one’s birth to find it irrevocably changed - yet still bearing the echo of that which once made it beloved.</p><p> </p><p>Annatar works his hand into Celebrimbor’s hair, yanking his hair back to press kisses to his throat that feel more like bites.  Even as Celebrimbor takes what he desires from his lover, he feels that Annatar is the one in control, saying “Everything you have, I gave to you” with the way his hips roll or his nails dig into the meat of Celebrimbor’s broad shoulders.  </p><p> </p><p>Annatar finds his release with his teeth around Celebrimbor’s throat.  Celebrimbor doesn’t last much longer.</p><p> </p><p>Later, they lie together, the bed linens twisted about their hips.  Celebrimbor takes a steadying breath, willing himself to adopt a tranquil demeanor.  He knows Annatar’s secret.  He is not sure if Annatar knows his.  </p><p> </p><p>Later still, Annatar slips from the bed, dressing himself in the robes he’d left in Celebrimbor’s quarters.  Travelers’ robes.  “I will be going East,” says Annatar.  “I will see you again, Tyelpe.” </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>When Celebrimbor wakes, it is not quite dawn.  The city is quiet, the sky is dark, and the air smells like sweet grass.  </p><p> </p><p>Annatar is not there.  </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Something moves in Eregion - a darkness. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I was kind of going for a vibe where Celebrimbor is a little entranced by Annatar.  I think what I find fascinating about these two is that their relationship - however you characterize it - is marked by deceit of the highest order, which calls into question the motivation behind every interaction they have with each other.  Even in the scenes where Celebrimbor is happy to be with Annatar, and seems to consent enthusiastically, I was shooting for this air of something being a little off center.  I don’t know if people have ever noticed that sometimes, before something bad happens, we get a feeling (maybe it raises the hair on our arms) even though we have no rational explanation for it? I suppose that was my intended tone for this piece.  I think Celebrimbor tried so hard to subvert the mistrust that characterized the motivations of his forefathers that he fell headlong into ignoring the hair standing up on his arms.  </p><p>I don’t think it’s canon, exactly, but I do think Sauron likes to have things organized; I think some people get off on control via destruction, and others get off on control via construction (as in, they control the narrative).  This is purely my personal headcanon, but I think Sauron may have studied under Yavanna as well, given his abilities to manipulate biology (orcs, werewolves etc).  I think he may see himself as a nurturer, in some perverse way, as long as his playthings abide by his rules.  </p><p>I think Sauron absolutely plays off Celebrimbor’s Feanorian pride; what could be a better target than the son who repudiated his father but still longs for his family?  I think Celebrimbor has this intense drive to make something good out of his skillset because people have spent a long time thinking the worst of his family.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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